


gelände hinter mir

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Bayern München, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xabi isn’t freefalling. Xabi is a controlled descent. Philipp doesn’t find himself dreaming about Xabi, he finds himself considering Xabi, like a chess piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gelände hinter mir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louis_quatorze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】gelände hinter mir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593222) by [Elf11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elf11/pseuds/Elf11)



> Dear recip: Happy Yuletide! I've always been fascinated by the idea of Xabi/Fips and I really liked being able to explore it in this fic. Hopefully you'll enjoy it just as much!
> 
>  
> 
> the title has been nicked from _Von Wegen_ by Einstürzende Neubauten, because if you can't name your holiday exchange fic after experimental German post-industrial noise music, then where is the justice in the world??

 

**_das gelände hinter mir hab ich immer weiter schön vermint_ **

 

 

When Xabi first signs for Bayern, Philipp understands what kind of player he is. He knows it makes career sense for Xabi to leave Madrid, on the high of winning the Champions League and the slow, controlled downhill coasting of retiring internationally. A new league, a team that’ll give him a good chance at a few more trophies without _relying_ on him for anything, so that he can ease his way out as he creeps closer to thirty-five. Xabi is really somewhere else, Philipp thinks. Still at Madrid or farther back, maybe. His loyalty and identity are somewhere else.

Oh, he’s dedicated. He puts everything that he has into Bayern. But there are two kinds of footballers in the world, Philipp knows. Footballers who love their clubs, and footballers who love football. The former pour themselves body and soul into their clubs- stay throughout the dry years, the long dark spells, the flirts with transfer windows. They survive and they burn, bright and hot, and if they do leave everyone knows they’re leaving their hearts at home, still beating in time with the songs sung and the banners waved.

And the latter footballers, of course they love their clubs as well. But what really draws them is the game, and if they see something beautiful happening somewhere else, they’ll leave. They move with the flow of the game, taking them where they need to be. When their knees start to ache too early into the first half and when their tackles start to slip from the inch-perfect timing they once had, they move on with cheerful knowledge that it’s time to go. For a more comfortable slot where they can eke out a few more years playing. The game is sand slipping through their fingers, and they want to cling to it as long as possible. And of course some of these footballers are obviously more mercenary than others, but that’s life for you. And Philipp thinks Xabi loves football fairly independent of what he needs to do to make money, through and through, because he sees Xabi’s eyes and he thinks that Xabi wishes he could love a club so much he would stay through anything. He thinks Xabi might have tried to, once, and he also thinks Xabi had seen what could happen to footballers who loved clubs like that, and had gotten scared.

Philipp loves Bayern Munich, and he won’t ask Xabi to, because Xabi loves football and he loves the football that he’s playing at Bayern, and that’s good enough for Philipp.

Still, he does find himself impressed by Xabi’s dedication. Bayern is likely not to be more than a few seasons for Xabi before retirement or a slower league in America or Qatar and yet Xabi has thrown himself into learning German and committing the club culture to heart with as much focus and effort as a twenty year old intending to make his career here. It was infinitely professional and has earned Xabi Philipp’s nod of approval.

Philipp likes to analyse. Players and coaches and clubs and leagues: he analyses and he assesses. It’s always been a habit of his. He puts things into categories. So Xabi falls into his labels: he loves football, he works at everything, he doesn’t settle in any sense of the word. Xabi’d left his childhood club long ago.

Philipp still needs time to make a judgement of character.

 

 

He comes to trust Xabi because Xabi likes Thomas. Not just tolerates or humours him, but genuinely seems to like him. He actively seeks out conversation with Thomas, even _German_ conversation with Thomas, presumably to improve his language abilities, and Thomas readily acquiesces, never one to turn down the opportunity to jabber on about whatever pops to mind if that’s what Xabi’s looking for. And it’s all to Xabi’s credit that the rapid-fire, heavily-Bavarian waterfall that spills over whenever Thomas opens his mouth actually seems to be improving Xabi’s German, rather than completely confusing it.

He’s golfing with Thomas when he discovers the extent of this: Thomas has just swung his club wildly and somehow still managed to land his ball almost inch-perfectly on the edge of the green, and Philipp is seriously considering a way to get Thomas banned from the course out of frustration (it’s the third time that day that Thomas has made a drive and nearly taken Philipp’s head off in the process) when Thomas says out of the blue, “So Xabi’s great, isn’t he?”

Philipp shakes himself out of his reverie. “Alonso?”

“Yeah, unless we signed another Xabi when I wasn’t looking.” Thomas grins. “He’s cool. We’ve been talking a lot.”

Philipp rolls his eyes. “You mean _you’ve_ been talking a lot.”

Thomas doesn’t attempt to deny it. “Well yes, but Xabi hasn’t exactly been a mute statue. We have conversations.”

The scepticism must show on Philipp’s face as he lines himself up for his shot because Thomas adds, “Honestly! He asked me to help him with his German, y’know? So we’ve been talking.” He’s thoughtful for a minute. “He reminds me of you, kinda. But more Spanish and less frowny.”

“I’m not frowny,” Philipp protests.

“You’re frowning right now, Fips.”

“I’m golfing! I’m concentrating! Or at least I’m _trying_ to,” he adds meaningfully. Thomas ignores the hint. He usually does.

“But yeah, Xabi’s great. Did you know he can explain the financial crisis entirely in German already? Wild.” Thomas shakes his head admiringly. “We’re getting drinks tonight, want to come? Or will you be too busy glaring at various things about your house?”

Philipp takes his swing, sending the golf ball soaring over the course to land just beyond the green. He represses the urge to scowl at the overshot. Thomas doesn’t need any more ammunition. “Yeah, sure. When’re you going?”

 

 

Xabi’s friendship with Thomas is such a departure from the image that Xabi projects and from what Philipp had expected of him that Philipp knows then: Xabi Alonso is a good person to have on side.

 

 

It doesn’t take long after Philipp starts trusting Xabi for him to start _trusting_ him- let him take the midfield and shape it, conduct it with the sort of long elegant crosses and absolute sense of where his team is positioned that had made the Liverpool and Madrid supporters sing his name in turn.

Philipp comes to rely on Xabi to know what Philipp wants to do with the defence and adjust his shape accordingly, and he has a good understanding with Xabi when Pep starts playing him at centre back (“Welcome to the Johan Cruyff Total Football Dream Academy,” Thomas whispers in Philipp’s ear when Pep announces at training that he wants to start moving everyone about, and Philipp elbows him in the stomach).

He gets on well with Pep also, and when asked about it Xabi laughs. “Then, with Madrid, Pep is Barcelona, yes? So then he is someone I must be against.” He speaks in his slow, clear German, still accented with Spanish but confident. “But he always has- beautiful football. At Madrid, I see this. And now I can play this, now we are both Bayern so I can play Pep’s football and enjoy it.”

It’s how Xabi sees the world. Xabi who is experienced and competent and Philipp likes him, he really does. He’d started noticing it after Thomas had mentioned, but Xabi _does_ remind Philipp of himself sometimes, in small arrogant ways. He’s practical and thoughtful, though he also has a mean streak that sometimes surfaces in bouts of cold anger.

That reminds Philipp of himself sometimes, too.

He can see Xabi’s shortcomings that have stripped him of the personality required to make a good captain: Xabi is well aware of his own flaws but he treats them with a carefully careless attitude instead of wrangling them the way Philipp does with his own ambitions and angers that are less than entirely positive.

Also to be considered is the intangible but distinct sense that Xabi has no designs on leadership. He likes control, to be sure: his management of his position speaks to that, but Philipp has never seen the kind of _pushing_ from Xabi that Philipp knows he had been guilty of. Xabi suggests, Xabi inputs, sure. But Xabi doesn’t try to _seize._ He doesn’t finalise. He’s happy enough leaving that to Philipp. This separates them in a way: Philipp preferring to know he holds all the strings and Xabi satisfied with ensuring that the strings are there so that he can trace them along, trusting in Philipp to lead him where he wants to go.

It separates and it brings them closer together. Philipp has never met another player who’d wanted to hold the strings that he hadn’t eventually clashed with in some way. But with Xabi it’s easy. They are different shapes, but shapes that slot neatly next to each other. Complements.

 

 

Philipp likes to think of himself as not a particularly covetous person. He has ambition, sure, and he’s always liked being in control. He might not particularly enjoy being under the spotlight, but he certainly likes being behind the microphone.

But he’s never particularly chased after people or things. Maybe when he was younger, stupider, but even then it wasn’t so much possession as control and influence. He didn’t want someone as much as he wanted to know _how_ to have them. He didn’t need something but needed to know _how_ to use it.

So Philipp doesn’t want much in the traditional sense, but when he does see something that he wants to be able to take apart and put back together again without the owner’s manual, he’s assiduous in his efforts.

He thinks he wants to take apart Xabi Alonso.

 

 

The team goes out for drinks the night before pre-season ends, a small kick-off celebration. Philipp thinks they deserve it. They’ve all worked hard in pre-season and he knows they’re confident, but he doesn’t have to worry about them becoming complacent. There’s too much energy constantly humming underneath everything, too much hunger.

He can see it in Xabi, despite Xabi having already won most everything there is to win. Xabi mixes languid humour with some kind of narrow-eyed drive to take and take and take. Although at the moment the only thing he’s taking is another drink, laughing at something that someone’s said. Philipp can’t tell who or what it was: everything is beginning to mesh together into a big happy crowd of satisfaction, the rumble of talk criss-crossing over laughter and the clinking of glasses.

The initial rush to start drinking dies down and everyone settles into small conversations, the loud ruckus faded save for the occasional shout. The night wears on and Philipp finds himself at the bar, a smiling Xabi strolling up to him.

 “ _Captain,_ ” Xabi says, not quite slurring his words yet but getting there. He smiles lazily, flashing perfect straight teeth.

“ _Xabi,”_ Philipp replies, smiling at him in amusement. He’s noticed before that Xabi drinks heavily, not as though he’s trying to forget or escape, but as though he wants to enjoy himself and he knows how to get to a point where he can. Philipp also nurses the strong suspicion that Xabi knows _exactly_ how good he looks with his shirt all rumpled and his long fingers wrapped around a glass of something amber and far too strong.

“Ready to lead us to victory in the new season?” Xabi says, teasing, eyes sparkling.

“Don’t get cocky,” Philipp says warningly, mostly for the sake of it.

“Me? Never.” Xabi is using English, and Philipp can detect underneath the Spanish curl of the r’s and the vowels, a distinct flair, the ends of his words lifting in tone. A memento of Liverpool, Philipp assumes. His German is quite good and always getting better, but Philipp likes talking to Xabi in English. Xabi is far more capable with it, and there’s nuance in his thoughts that Philipp enjoys.

They’re talking about plans for the next day, the one free before the season begins proper, when Xabi presses a hand into the crook of Philipp’s arm, not steadying himself but just to touch, a small scrap of contact. Xabi smiles at Philipp and his eyes are suddenly very dark. Black coffee, Philipp thinks.

“Hey,” Xabi says, carefully. “Do you want to come back to mine?”

The bar is mostly cleared out. They always seem to be the last ones to leave everything: the dressing room, the party. It’s in their natures to linger.

Philipp looks at Xabi. Xabi looks back.

Philipp nods. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

 

 

“Have you done this before?” Xabi asks in a low voice. It might just be simple curiosity or concern but he sounds slightly patronising in the way that only Xabi can, as if he doesn’t believe that Philipp knows what he’s getting himself into, and it rubs Philipp the wrong way.

“Yes,” he says shortly, and doesn’t elaborate. But then, feeling slightly bitter and wanting to sting, adds, “And I _know_ you have.”

Xabi’s eyes narrow. “Still, it is a long time ago.”

“That’s the way it happens, isn’t it? Lots of things are a long time ago.”

It’s not explicit, it’s bordering on cryptic, but Xabi understands what he means and smiles ruefully. “That is true.”

Timo’s face flashes unbidden to mind, and Philipp cringes slightly. Xabi notices, and Philipp quickly shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

Xabi’s expression turns sympathetic. “I know. I- also. Have a nothing.” He smiles wryly. “He can be distracting, sometimes.”

He doesn’t clarify but Philipp would bet money on who Xabi was talking about. There’s quiet, but instead of a moving quiet that had surrounded them before it’s the quiet of reflection, both of them lost in their own heads.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.” Philipp says, finally. The warmth he’d been floating in earlier has dissipated, leaving him with cold reminders about why this whole... _thing_ , with Xabi, was a bad idea.

Xabi watches him gravely. “No?”

“No.”

He nods. “Okay.” Sits back on his heels, putting just enough increased distance between himself and Philipp that Philipp can suddenly see everything again. Xabi quirks his lip into a half-smile. “It was worth a try, no?”

Philipp smiles weakly. “Worth a try.”

 

 

When he pulls the car into his driveway he sits there for a moment, headlights off and engine quiet, in the dark. He thinks about Xabi’s half-smile and about his hand on Philipp’s arm. He thinks about _worth a try._

Xabi is a transient, Philipp tells himself. No point in starting something that he can already perfectly predict the end of.

 

 

Philipp has been in love before.

He doesn’t think he’s in love with Xabi.

Before, Philipp had been a good ten years younger and the captain of nothing. His responsibilities had begun and ended at playing his role in the team to the best of his abilities. He’d been on loan and he hadn’t been particularly torn up about it, more taken it as a sort of test, to tackle head-on with the idea that he would show them, if he was going to be shipped out he was going to make the most of it, to the point that Bayern would be scrambling to get him back as soon as they could.

It had been a welcome aspect that _making the most of it_ had included Timo. (And Philipp doesn’t regret that; Philipp doesn’t _regret_ , not really- everything that happens and that had happened is useful, he tells himself, it can be studied, it can be used- he tells himself.)

But now is different. Almost entirely so. Philipp has one armband and is fresh off of giving up another. Things weigh heavier on him. He has the silverware to prove it- the silverware and the gold, as well. He’s older, he’s definitely- well, wiser if not cleverer, and he’s satisfied with where he is.

It’s sometimes frightening that he doesn’t know if he would fall in love with Timo again, if he met him today. Back then, that had been freefall, the thrilling rush of air pouring past him as he tumbled, holding out on pulling the cord of his parachute just because he could.

Xabi isn’t freefalling. Xabi is a controlled descent. Philipp doesn’t find himself dreaming about Xabi, he finds himself _considering_ Xabi, like a chess piece. Xabi who is put together and cautiously aware of his every move.

Philipp doesn’t think he’s in love. He thinks he might be in mutual understanding, which might be something like love for people who already have or have had enough of the real thing and can’t afford any more, and in any case don’t have the time for it.

Then Xabi scores what can only be called a screamer against Darmstadt, and things change.

Xabi’s entire _being_ lights up once the ball has soared gracefully into the back of the net and the crowd is on its feet, screaming in disbelief and he jumps up in a spin and laughs in pure, childish delight before vanishing under a pile of ecstatic team mates.

 

 

“Nice to know I can still do that.” Xabi says later in the dressing room, voice quiet but brimming with happiness. “I am ten years younger, I think.”

And he’s not. He’s not ten years younger and neither is Philipp. It’s not 2005 and Xabi isn’t at Liverpool and Philipp isn’t at Stuttgart. Things change, people change, times change. Xabi can still score lovely curling goals from yards and yards outside the box, and Philipp can still perform inch-perfect slide tackles, but they aren’t the same people who could wilfully leap into freefall with only the trust that someone else had prepared the parachute ahead of time.

But, Philipp thinks, watching Xabi carefully fold up his things and pack them neatly away, it’s not exactly a freefall that he’s looking for. If he’s looking for anything.

 

 

He rings Xabi after he gets home, and gets voice mail. Xabi must still be in the car. He wouldn’t have left a message, just waited to call again later, but Philipp isn’t the kind of person who can leave a ‘one missed call’ notification on someone’s phone and not a ‘one new voice mail’ to go along with it. He likes completion.

“Hi Xabi, it’s Philipp- I guess you’re still driving home but call me back when you can, I’d like to go for drinks if you’re up for it.”

Xabi phones back within ten minutes. “Philipp?”              

“Xabi. Hi. I was wondering if-” he changes his mind. “Well, actually, I need a word. Would you come to mine?”

“Of course,” Xabi says immediately. “Now?”

“If it’s not too much of a problem.”

“Never a problem, captain.” Philipp can hear the smirk in Xabi’s voice. “I will be right there.”

 

 

The bell rings and Philipp opens the door to Xabi standing on the stoop, stance casual but huddled into pea coat against the chill of the December evening. Philipp lets him in and Xabi carefully hangs his coat up on one of the hooks in the hall. Unwinds the scarf from around his neck. Philipp watches him, hovering slightly.

It hasn’t been strange between them since the night he’d gone home with Xabi. They’d never mentioned it and Xabi had been exactly the same as ever: smirking and languid but always polite.

He turns to Philipp and says, “Captain,” at the same time that Philipp opens his mouth and begins, “Xabi-”

They both stop.

This is why they hadn’t said anything, Philipp thinks darkly. Nothing had been strange and stilted so long as nothing had been said. But now the works are all gummed up and it’s entirely his fault. He pushes onward.

“I do like you, Xabi,” he says all in a rush, because he thinks that if he deliberates any longer on how to say this like a grown-up he’ll just choke on it and never say anything. So he might as well run with it pell-mell, just as he’d done all those years ago. “I like you but I want to be sure before anything because I keep asking myself, what are you looking for, and what am I looking for, and-”

Xabi kisses him. Just steps forward and kisses him, his cold nose bumping against Philipp’s cheek, his fingers lithe and gentle against Philipp’s arm. And it’s confusing. Because there’s no borderline-frightening rush in his stomach, no dizzying tumble. Everything is different and everyone is different- and different, it’s not bad, it’s just-

“Is this alright?” Xabi asks, drawing back cautiously. Cautious. Calculated. Xabi who waits. Xabi who still smiles like he’s barely past twenty when he scores a beautiful goal.

Philipp smiles. “Yes,” he says, decidedly. “It’s alright.”

 

 


End file.
